


Preference

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Breathplay, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Instead I’m fraternizing with the enemy,' Mikoto says as Reisi’s fingers come down to lace into his hair and drag over his scalp. 'A far better use of my time.'" Mikoto manages to claim some of Reisi's valuable time and some of Reisi himself at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



“I dunno,” Mikoto grins from his sprawl across the chair in the corner of the room. “What if you leave the coat on?”

Reisi spares him a glance, a disbelieving stare coupled with a lift of one dark eyebrow. He looks regal, haughty and austere and untouchable, except that there’s tension at the corner of his mouth, the hint of perhaps-a-laugh as he unfastens the buttons down the front of his uniform.

“Dry cleaning is expensive, you know,” he observes. When he looks down to steady the motion of his hands his hair falls in front of his face, the strands catching the light until they look nearly blue instead of the shadowy black Mikoto usually considers them. “I’m not that willing to submit to your uniform kink.”

Mikoto laughs, easy and unaffected by the teasing. “ _My_  uniform kink?” he asks, watching the weight of the heavy coat slide free from Reisi’s shoulders so the other man can fold it over his arm and drape it over the back of the desk chair. “Of the two of us, I’m not the one who has my clan dress like they stepped out of a history book.”

“For the best, really,” Reisi says. When he turns back around he’s smiling properly, his eyes going bright with amusement behind the cover of his glasses. “You’d never be able to keep your hands off them. It would be a terrible abuse of your power.”

Mikoto hums, sits up straighter as Reisi crosses the floor towards him. Without the dark of his coat his shirt is snowy white, the fall of lacy fabric from his collar hard even to see against the expanse of pale cloth. Mikoto reaches out, gestures with all the offhand arrogance he can muster as Reisi comes nearly within reach, like he’s beckoning the other near. That gets him an eyeroll, a huff of disbelief, but the other doesn’t stop his approach as he comes in towards Mikoto, offering the soft of his shirt for the other’s reaching hands.

“Instead I’m fraternizing with the enemy,” Mikoto says as Reisi’s fingers come down to lace into his hair and drag over his scalp. “A far better use of my time.”

“Much, yes,” Reisi smirks. His hands press against Mikoto’s hair, push down until his fingertips are digging into the back of the other man’s neck, and Mikoto tips his head down in submission to the touch. Reisi’s fingers are elegant, long and thin and stronger than they look, pushing hard at the knots of tension Mikoto knows as well as friends until they give way to the pressure.

“It’s lucky you were able to get free tonight,” Mikoto says conversationally, even though his words are blowing warm against Reisi’s shirt and his fingers are sliding down to the buckle of the other man’s belt. Reisi laughs over him as Mikoto tugs at the dark leather, a short burst of amusement at the motion, but he doesn’t pull away, and Mikoto takes that as permission to continue. “You always get so pissy when I show up at your office.”

“I wouldn’t need to be if you gave me any warning at all,” Reisi points out as Mikoto gets the belt buckle loose, starts sliding the length free of the other’s belt loops. “You don’t even bother with a decent excuse. I think everyone suspects, now.”

“You didn’t tell them?” Mikoto tugs the belt free, leans in to breathe against the front of Reisi’s shirt. Up close he can press his mouth to the space between the shirt buttons, form his lips into a smile close enough for Reisi to feel it through the fabric. “Not very forthcoming of you.”

“You think I should have volunteered that I let the leader of Homra fuck me over my desk?” Reisi suggests, only a faint snap to the words. Mikoto flinches more from the heat in his veins than from any real sense of injustice, and Reisi goes on, his fingers tightening so his fingernails dig into Mikoto’s shoulders just under his shirt collar. “Or would it have been better to tell them about the time I brought the leash with me and tied you to the chair?”

“Fair point,” Mikoto concedes, reaches up to grab at Reisi’s wrist with his free hand and pull the other’s touch away, to push his arm in behind him instead. There’s a suggestion of resistance, uncertainty turning into hesitation in the other man, but Mikoto keeps pressing with gentle force and after a moment Reisi moves, lets the other fold his arm in around his back so he can wind the end of the belt around the delicate wrist.

Mikoto’s moving slowly, careful even without taking into account the whip-quick reflexes he knows Reisi possesses; there is plenty of time for the other man to slip his hand free, to shake off Mikoto’s gentle hold as he cinches the leather tight. But the only response he gets is a huff over his head, faint unspoken amusement, and even when Reisi speaks his hand remains still and compliant under Mikoto’s touch.

“Aren’t you being a bit hasty, Mikoto?” He shifts his feet, steadies his balance as Mikoto transfers the loose end of the belt from one hand to another, leans back enough to reach up and pull at Reisi’s other hand. There’s even less resistance this time, Reisi letting his arm go completely pliant in Mikoto’s hold, and Mikoto doesn’t have to look up to hear the smile in the other’s voice. He does anyway, blinks to look up through the curtain of his hair, because Reisi’s sincere smile is a thing to be appreciated whenever it appears. The other man’s eyes are soft behind his glasses, the warmth at his mouth glowing gentle into his eyes as well, all the usual clean lines of his stoic features made open and inviting by the expression.

Mikoto is knocked silent by that smile, can feel his own gaze flickering hot like his blood is burning with his royal power in his veins. Reisi doesn’t look away, doesn’t twist his hand free; he just keeps smiling, tilting his chin down in a makeshift gesture towards his shirt. “Do you truly intend to have me half-dressed?”

“Aren’t I supposed to have a taste for your uniform?” Mikoto manages, pulling up a smile from the rippling fire in his blood. The end of the belt fits around Reisi’s second wrist as easily as the first, even if working it through the buckle again is something more of a challenge; it’s still only a moment before Mikoto is pulling it tight to pin Reisi’s arms behind him. It’s remarkable how unfazed Reisi appears, how he can manage to look affectionately condescending even with his hands held together by his own belt and in nothing but his uniform pants and white shirt.

It’s the shirt Mikoto starts on, letting his now-unnecessary hold on the other’s wrists go so he can lean back and work on the buttons. There’s a long line of them, tiny white fastenings that take longer than they ought to undo. It’s this as much as a distaste for such stylized appearances that keeps Mikoto in the loose coat and t-shirt he prefers; bad enough to fuss with these when he has Reisi’s bare skin on the other side waiting like a present. At least they are falling apart as fast as he moves, revealing the faint motion of the other’s breathing as Mikoto goes, until the white-soft cloth is open and hanging off Reisi’s shoulders.

Mikoto pauses, draws back to stare at the other man’s bared chest for a moment, the faint traces of years-old scars healed into barely-visible lines and starburst patterns against Reisi’s skin. He wants to trace them, with his eyes and then with his fingers, maybe his lips, a slow exploration of the familiarity of the other’s body; but Reisi is laughing over him, leaning into the featherlight of the other’s touch until it goes firmer by necessity alone.

“Are you trying to tease me?” Reisi asks. His skin is hot to the touch, burning against Mikoto’s palms like he’s glowing as hot as the other man feels he is. “That’s hardly your style.”

“No,” Mikoto agrees, tightens his hands at Reisi’s hips to steady himself as he gets to his feet. “It’s yours.”

Reisi purrs amusement without a hint of negation, but when Mikoto leans in for his mouth there’s no hint of teasing; his lips are parted as Mikoto settles into the kiss, his weight tipped forward past the point of stability until it’s more Mikoto holding him up than otherwise. With the advantage of balance it’s easy for Mikoto to shift his hold to Reisi’s arms, to push him back and steer him across the room without pulling away from his mouth; Reisi laughs against his lips, a purr of amusement lost to the friction of the other’s mouth, but he doesn’t twist away. His movements are smoother than Mikoto’s own, as graceful and certain as if he’s dancing rather than backing up across a room only half-familiar at best, until when they bump against the edge of the bed Reisi is the one who stops before Mikoto does, goes still so the other’s next step presses them close enough together to threaten a fall.

Mikoto doesn’t mind. This close he can feel each of Reisi’s inhales, the telltale speed of adrenaline under his breath and the catch of a gasp against Mikoto’s mouth when he drops a hand to press between their hips. Mikoto doesn’t shut his eyes, even when he can see the flicker of dark lashes fluttering behind Reisi’s glasses; it’s thrilling to see Reisi from this close-up, to see the artistic clarity of his features made warm and human by proximity. Mikoto can see the individual lashes spread out over his cheek, the dark-edge frame of his glasses close enough to touch. When he opens his mouth wider to press his tongue past Reisi’s lips there’s the shift of a smile against him, motion as the other leans in closer, and for a moment Mikoto is distracted just by the heat of the other man against his palm, pushes in with the unthinking desire for more. The fabric slides under his hand, fits itself between his skin and Reisi’s, and then Reisi draws his mouth away to say “ _Mikoto_ ” in a way that is heated into the beginnings of a threat, and Mikoto grins amusement and slides his hand up to work the clothing open.

It’s easier with the other’s belt already stripped loose. The clean lines of Reisi’s uniform slacks are as easy to open as Mikoto’s own jeans, maybe easier with the thinner fabric, and this is far from the first time Mikoto has undressed the other man. If anything this is easier than usual, absent the usual stress of attempting to keep Reisi’s clothes clean and tidy once they’re done, and Mikoto feels he can hardly be blamed if he takes a purring-warm pleasure in deliberately rumpling the fabric as he gets the button open and the zipper down. He suspects Reisi is onto him -- the smirk at the corner of the other’s mouth would certainly seem to imply so -- but he doesn’t speak, just stays standing still even when Mikoto draws out of range for a kiss so he can drop to a knee and drag Reisi’s clothes down his legs and off his hips. He does pause, then, lets himself linger so he can stare for a moment at the sharp-edge line of Reisi’s hip leading down to the flushed heat of his cock; it’s not until the other speaks that he realizes he hasn’t moved for several seconds for the distraction.

“While I like you on your knees,” Reisi allows, as if considering the scenario, “I’d prefer if you were a bit more active about it.” There’s movement, careful in consideration of the other’s compromised balance, but Reisi still manages to work his leg free of his slacks, steps in so he can fit his foot in between Mikoto’s thighs. It’s not much pressure -- his balance is too shaky to allow for any real acrobatics -- but it’s enough to push against the front of Mikoto’s jeans, to grind the friction of his zipper in against him and remind him what he’s meant to be doing.

“Impatient?” Mikoto suggests, reaching out to close his fingers at Reisi’s hip and urge him backwards to the bed. Reisi drops back, sitting against the surface as he draws his other foot free, and then he’s free of his clothes but for the shirt hanging at his shoulders and the belt binding his wrists in behind his back. When Mikoto gets back to his feet and leans in, Reisi topples backwards, falls hard against the bed without his hands to catch him; the sound of his breathing rushing out at the impact burns through Mikoto, the power implicit in their positions as much of a rush as the true power he carries due to his role as King.

“You look good like this,” Mikoto observes, grinning as Reisi gets his breath back and forms his mouth into a frown at the other’s amusement. He can’t resist when Mikoto reaches for his glasses to ease them off, only starts to voice a protest when the other leans in closer to kiss against bare cheekbones while still holding the frames.

“At least put those somewhere safe,” he suggests, turning his head so Mikoto’s mouth touches just in front of his ear rather than his cheek. “If you break them you won’t see me for a month.”

“You sure know how to make effective threats,” Mikoto allows, pulling away so he can lean in over Reisi’s shoulders and deposit the glasses atop the bedstand. He needs to reach for the drawer anyway, rummage through the contents without looking until he finds the bottle he’s looking for. “Happy now?”

“Hm,” Reisi considers, but he’s smiling again when Mikoto rocks back over his knees to look down at him. Without his glasses his eyes are softer, a little out-of-focus but looking infinitely blue, so dark they catch the light into shades of purple when he blinks. Mikoto smiles, warm and electric with pleasure, and when he leans down for Reisi’s mouth the other makes no attempt to move away. His lips are softer without his usual frown or the tension of a smirk, fitting in against the give of Mikoto’s mouth, until it’s hard to pull back even for the promise of the bottle of lube coming open in his hands.

“I’ve decided,” Mikoto declares, looking away from the distraction that is Reisi’s face so he can slick his fingers with the liquid. “I  _do_  like you better without the coat.”

Reisi rolls his eyes, slides his legs apart over the bed so one is bent over the edge and one is laid over the dark of the sheets. With his shirt tangled around his arms he looks stylized, like a painter’s model arranged deliberately instead of accidentally, all the harsh lines of his usual appearance melted into soft sweeping curves by his position. It makes Mikoto sigh appreciation, the exhale going loud over the heat in his throat, and when he reaches out for Reisi even the cool of the lube on his skin isn’t enough to chill the trembling burn in his fingers.

Reisi doesn’t watch his hand; he’s watching Mikoto’s face, instead, gazing at him with the concentrated focus of the slightly nearsighted. There’s a flicker of reaction as Mikoto slides a finger in, his gaze slipping dizzy for a breath; but then he inhales, recentered himself, and even if Mikoto can feel the tension of the other’s body around him there’s no trace of it on Reisi’s features. He looks completely relaxed, his mouth barely open on his breath and his eyes dark and half-lidded, and it’s all rushing through Mikoto like he’s the one restrained and spread out over the bed, like somehow it’s Reisi in control at the moment instead of him. It makes him chuckle, low and purring in his chest as he reaches out to touch his fingers to the line of Reisi’s shoulder, right where it curves into his neck.

“You alright?” he asks, even though he doesn’t need to, he can see for himself that Reisi’s breathing is more overheated than it is strained. The question gets him a flutter of eyelashes, the shape of a knowing stare, and then Reisi is tipping his head away, curving his neck into a smooth pale line under the pressure of Mikoto’s thumb

“Are you sure  _you_  are?” Reisi asks. When he arches up off the bed Mikoto can feel the tension in the other’s body around his touch, can feel his own breathing skid into an unrestrained whine at the motion. The dark in the other’s half-lidded eyes looks like a taunt, a suggestion for more, and when Mikoto leans in to hold him down by his shoulder so he can fit a second finger inside the other man Reisi doesn’t jerk away, just shuts his eyes and lets his breath go as if he’s giving a gift of his air to the universe. Mikoto is rocking up on his knees without meaning to, leaning in to get closer to the curve of Reisi’s throat and the arch of his back, until his lips are just skimming the other man’s collarbone as he presses his fingers in as far as he can reach. Reisi hums the outline of a laugh over his head, the sound purring up his throat, and Mikoto can feel it against his fingertips, the sound turning to sensation on his skin. He slides his hand sideways, sweeping up the curve of Reisi’s throat until he can lay his palm against the rhythm of the other’s pulse and his thumb against the tension in the other’s neck, and when he thrusts in with his fingers he can feel the unvoiced shudder of reaction under his touch.

“I like you like this,” Mikoto volunteers, shifting his fingers wider to get another tremor of reaction from Reisi’s body. “Just you, without the uniform or the responsibilities or any of that.”

“Those are still me,” Reisi points out. Mikoto slides his fingers back, eases them back in, and Reisi has to take a breath before he can keep speaking. His eyes are still shut, the lashes lying soft and gentle at the high line of his cheekbone. “The responsibility and the uniform and the title, all of it.”

“But this is mine,” Mikoto says, sliding the hand at Reisi’s throat in sideways to savor the friction of the other’s skin against his. “The rest of it belongs to everyone else, but this part is mine.”

He’s expecting a rejection, a laugh and an arrogant head tilt, amusement at Mikoto’s casual claiming. But when Reisi’s eyes open there’s no laughter in them, the shape of his smile is far more gentle than Mikoto was expecting, and when there’s the shudder of sound under his touch it turns into “Yes,” instead of the negative he anticipated. It overturns Mikoto’s expectations, spills startling heat into his veins, and he’s leaning in before he thinks, the steady rhythm of his hand going still as he presses his mouth to the pleasure turning Reisi’s expression gentle and soft. There’s confession at his lips, affection and appreciation and glazed-over desire all competing for control of his throat, but he doesn’t try to fit words to the feeling; Reisi is the poet of the two of them, and Mikoto has always been better at speaking with his body than with his words. So he kisses his heat into Reisi’s lips, dragging friction against them until Reisi is trembling under him and breathing hard as he pulls away, and then he rocks back so he can ease his fingers free and pull the front of his jeans open.

It’s an easy process, his movements urged into speed by the silent heat in Reisi’s eyes, the expectant angle of his legs. Mikoto had intended to strip down more than just pushing his pants down off his hips, but in the end all he does is get his jeans half-off, leaving his t-shirt and even the dangling weight of his tie to fall and bump against Reisi’s shoulder as he leans in, dropping his hips down to fit between the open suggestion of the other’s thighs. Even without his hands Reisi manages to gain back some control, hooks his legs around Mikoto’s waist to arch up as he urges the other closer, and Mikoto laughs, leans in close to settle his weight on an elbow just over Reisi’s shoulder while he reaches down to fit them together. Everything is slick, his fingers and Reisi’s skin and the damp catch of their breath tangling together, and then Mikoto settles them into place and starts to push forward and into the other. Reisi’s eyelids flutter again, his head tipping back like the groan in his throat is forcing itself into expression in his throat too, and Mikoto stares at the line of his neck as heat slides down over the head of his cock, urging him in deeper and faster than he’s moving as yet.

He holds himself to a slow thrust, gentle with patience, but there’s no restraint in how far he goes; the temptation to come all the way forward is too much, the taut flutter in Reisi’s throat too much suggestion to avoid. Reisi groans as Mikoto slides fully into him, putting voice to the trembling sensation in the other’s body, and then they’re together, the tight-slick heat of Reisi around him urging Mikoto to more, faster, harder.

“Reisi,” Mikoto groans, pulls back to thrust again, and Reisi arches this time, his back curving off the bed until the slick-wet heat of his cock bumps and catches Mikoto’s t-shirt. It’s almost enough to persuade Mikoto to move his hand, to reach down and urge Reisi into shuddering satisfaction before him, but the other’s pulse is thrumming too hard against his fingers, the tension in the other’s throat is too much to resist. Mikoto slides his hand sideways instead, flexes his fingers to lay gentle pressure against Reisi’s throat, and he can feel the other’s reaction instantly, the way his cock twitches hard between them and the convulsive shiver of response that tightens his body around Mikoto. His reaction runs up Mikoto’s spine, too, tenses his throat on a groan of appreciation, and when he moves again his actions are synchronized, the careful tightening of his fingers in time with the slow thrust of his hips. Reisi’s breath whines high in his throat, his inhales coming only with effort, and Mikoto stops pressing harder, holds the point of tension while Reisi’s eyes drift out-of-focus as his attention gives way to sensation. Mikoto can feel the tremors of friction running through the other, the irregular shivers of reaction in him, and he would shut his eyes to the burn in his own body if he weren’t so caught by the dark spill of Reisi’s hair across the sheets and the part of Reisi’s lips on the air he has to struggle for. Mikoto’s breathing harder too, his inhales falling into time with his motions, his skin prickling hot under the tangle of his clothes caught at his skin.

“Mikoto,” Reisi manages, breathing the name past the hold Mikoto has on his throat. Even that one word comes out strained, but he’s tipping his hips up in suggestion Mikoto doesn’t need words to understand. It makes him smile, laugh short against the heat in his blood, and then he lets his hold go, trails his hand down against Reisi’s chest just to watch the way the other’s eyelashes flutter and his back arches in reflexive response. It’s like he’s being drawn to a magnet, like he’s pressing in for as much contact as he can get, and Mikoto draws it slow as he keeps moving to pull shuddering pleasure of a different sort up under the other man’s skin. Reisi is hot to the touch, burning like Mikoto’s flames and sticky all across the flat of his stomach; the other man groans when Mikoto touches him, his cock spilling another trickle of pre-come as Mikoto tightens his grip to start stroking in earnest. Then he’s moving, falling into an easy rhythm, and Reisi falls back to the bed, the tension of need evaporating from him and speaking better to his state than any words could do.

His eyes are shut, now, his mouth open and gasping for air, and Mikoto draws back from his shoulder, holds himself up with his elbow so he can watch the waves of reaction spill over Reisi’s features. There’s a flicker of tension in his forehead, a brief tightening at his lips, a flutter of his eyelashes that doesn’t quite turn into a blink; and then Mikoto catches his thumb against the head of the other’s cock, and pushes up slow and hard, and Reisi shivers himself into orgasm and comes hot against the open edges of his shirt.

It’s all Mikoto can do to keep stroking him through the aftershocks, to pull the last quivers of tension out of the other while he can feel Reisi tightening in pulsing waves around him; then, finally, Reisi gasps “Mikoto” like it’s permission, and Mikoto lets him go, braces against the other’s hip instead so he can fall into longer, harder strokes. The motion makes Reisi groan again, his body tensing around Mikoto’s cock, but it doesn’t sound like pain and Mikoto’s vision is blurring away, all his sense of self melting around him until he’s nothing but a thrumming point of anticipation. Reisi is breathing hard, still trembling with lingering pleasure under him, and Mikoto finally has to shut his eyes and let the heat take him. It’s only a few thrusts, quick and deep and out-of-rhythm; then he’s groaning Reisi’s name, shaking and gasping and coming, and in the first few heartbeats he becomes the heat he usually wields. Everything is washed red, hot in his veins and melting through his body, and then he takes a breath and he is himself again, trembling and gasping against the line of Reisi’s shoulder.

Reisi doesn’t let him linger long. It’s only a moment, barely enough time for the uncontrollable trembling of pleasure to fade into languid exhaustion, before the other shifts to push Mikoto sideways.

“You’re crushing my hands,” he points out, and Mikoto pushes back immediately, shocked into action by the reminder of what he had all but forgotten. They slide apart, Reisi turning over onto his side to offer his wrists for Mikoto’s assistance, and then it’s only a moment of tugging before the belt is sliding loose and leaving the other wholly free again.

Mikoto expects Reisi to slide off the bed, retreat to his abandoned clothes and pull himself back into at least an imitation of his usual composure. But he doesn’t draw away, doesn’t even reach for his glasses; as soon as his hands are free he’s reaching up instead out away, looping an arm around Mikoto’s shoulders and pulling him back down where he was originally. Mikoto is damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin and wet when it presses against the sticky spill of liquid across Reisi’s stomach, but he doesn’t resist; it’s easy to shut his eyes to the affectionate push of fingers through his hair, to smile against Reisi’s shoulder and drape an arm heavy around the other man’s waist.

He likes Reisi best of all like this.


End file.
